


taste a little bit of heaven

by heartunsettledsoul



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Fix It Fic, Missing Moments, and then a decent amount of smut tbh, except for 4x09 because the author refuses to acknowledge that episode yet, in which there are a lot of cute moments and a lot of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21841654
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartunsettledsoul/pseuds/heartunsettledsoul
Summary: They’ve been here before.Notherehere, in this gothic mansion of a school where Betty is half-expecting the ghost of Agatha Christie to emerge and tell them about the horrors taken place in its hallowed hall. Here: watching her boyfriend start a different school, discover a new set of classmates, find another place to belong.It doesn’t scare her as much as it did when Jughead moved to Southside High. For one, there is nothing remotely intimidating about an eighteen-year-old David Foster Wallace wannabe whose initial attempt at dismissing her was to ridicule her name and outfit.For another, she and Jughead are stronger than they were then. Two years of emotional upheaval and torture will do that to a relationship. Betty certainly isn’t glad for any of what has happened to them, but she can appreciate that it has molded them into stronger people, stronger partners for each other.Not that it makes saying goodbye to him again any less painful.Or, their relationship evolves. 4x03ish-4x08 post-ep of sorts.
Relationships: Betty Cooper/Jughead Jones
Comments: 39
Kudos: 143
Collections: 6th Bughead Fanfiction Awards - Nominees





	taste a little bit of heaven

**Author's Note:**

> This started as a ‘five times’ of moments where Betty & Jughead share intimacy in ways other than sex, and then it (surprise) got out of control. But just know that is where this started and the undercurrents are still there. ….but now with some smut, so. Enjoy. 
> 
> (For the sake of my sanity, we’re going to ignore all of 4x09 and the fact that Betty would have needed to have an early decision application into Yale by Halloween. Canon is a buffet: take what you like, and throw the rest back into RAS’s face.)

Whatever comes, won’t let you go  
I’m off for now, I’ll see you soon  
Everybody’s trying to get on, get on  
Taste a little bit of heaven, heaven  
I feel that presence when I’m with you  
\- Presence, Joseph 

* * *

They’ve been here before. 

Not  _ here _ here, in this gothic mansion of a school where Betty is half-expecting the ghost of Agatha Christie to emerge and tell them about the horrors taken place in its hallowed hall. Here: watching her boyfriend start a different school, discover a new set of classmates, find another place to belong. 

It doesn’t scare her as much as it did when Jughead moved to Southside High. For one, there is nothing remotely intimidating about an eighteen-year-old David Foster Wallace wannabe whose initial attempt at dismissing her was to ridicule her name and outfit. 

For another, she and Jughead are stronger than they were then. Two years of emotional upheaval and torture will do that to a relationship. Betty certainly isn’t glad for any of what has happened to them, but she can appreciate that it has molded them into stronger people, stronger partners for each other. 

Not that it makes saying goodbye to him again any less painful. 

Her whispered “I’m proud of you” gets muffled by the way her face is pressed into his chest and when Betty pulls away, both of them have unshed tears pooling in their eyes. 

“I wouldn’t be here without you, Betty.” Betty gives him a sheepish, watery smile; he’s being silly, he has always had this talent. “I’m serious,” he continues. “If not for you restarting the Blue and Gold, or for always pushing me to write harder, I’d never have had the confidence to share anything I wrote. Maybe my short story got me here, but you’re the one who got me to write that story.” 

Tears fall in earnest now, and Betty doesn’t think she will ever tire of how cherished she feels when Jughead is so openly vulnerable with her. 

His own whispered “I love you” is fierce and sandwiched between two toe-curling kisses. 

“It’s different this time,” Betty swears, more certain of it than she has been of anything else before, but still needing the words to solidify out loud. 

Jughead grins. “Can’t get rid of me that easily, I’m practically invincible at this rate.” 

“Don’t tempt fate, you jerk.” She punctuates her warning with a light smack on the shoulder, which Jughead returns by tugging on her ponytail. 

It feels better to end their goodbye on a silly note, rather than a tearful one. And so, with one last kiss, Betty yanks the hem of his beanie over his eyes and skips out of the room.  “See you this weekend,” he calls after her. 

The warmth of his promise carries her through the whole drive home.

* * *

**_I have a surprise for you,_ ** Betty texts him as he’s swinging into his seat in Chipping’s salon. 

It’s probably bad form to text so openly, but it’s not a real class, Jughead reasons. And Chipping is currently deep in what looks like a painfully obnoxious conversation with Bret.  So. 

**_Good, bad, or sexual?_ ** He expects an eyeroll emoji at that, knowing that Betty never particularly enjoys when Jughead interrupts her with innuendo while she’s on a mission. 

He is  _ not  _ expecting her answer to be something that nearly makes him fall out of his chair. 

**_All of the above?_ **

Whatever the hell that entails, Jughead doesn’t get to ask because Chipping claps his hands to signal their attention and then he’s listening to Bret prattle on again about  _ Moby Dick  _ instead of finding out what his girlfriend may or may not have in store for  _ his  _ dick. 

Which, as though beckoned, twitches painfully in his pants. 

His phone screen lights up again and Jughead tries to angle it in a way to still read what it says without being obvious, and without Donna reading it like he can tell she’s trying to from two seats down. 

True to form, Betty has sent him a large block of text, from which he only picks up keywords; namely  **_vixens_ ** and  **_cheer skirt._ ** It’s followed by a very-PG selfie of Betty with a blue scrunchie and the recognizable gold varsity shirt. Which means it is also paired with what Jughead knows to be a cruelly short pair of workout shorts. 

Praying that Donna isn’t still glancing sidelong at him, Jughead shifts uncomfortably in his seat and taps out a reply.  **_Are you trying to kill me?_ **

**_Just a little something to think about when you’re in your dorm later._ **

**_God, Betts. I’m in class still. You’re actually killing me._ **

Betty must be feeling proud of herself today because she sends him a few more pictures, these featuring the shorts more prominently. And stealthily snuck in between adorable photos of her is one with very different lighting than that of the Riverdale High locker rooms, one that looks like it’s taken against their bedsheets and has far more bare skin shown than Jughead can handle without combusting.  **_Off to practice, I’ll call you later!_ **

“Mr. Jones, what do you think?” 

Jughead hastily shoves his phone into his jacket pocket and tries to rid his brain of what he belatedly realizes is Betty in their bed, wearing a pink lingerie set he is extremely fond of. 

He flounders his way through an answer that has Bret snickering behind him, but Jughead can’t care. Bret will go back to their dorm and write a verbose, flowery paper for this salon, and probably take a few more digs at Jughead’s secondhand uniform. 

Jughead, on the other hand, will be returning to their dorm just long enough to grab his towel and shampoo before getting himself off in the shower to the mental image of his gorgeous, whipsmart girlfriend trying on different bras and panties just to take photos for him. It isn’t even a question who has the better deal. 

* * *

It takes Betty a few beats to understand where she is, why she’s gasping into the dark and—more importantly, why the hand she flings out to reach for Jughead only grasps at the messy sheets. 

Right. 

Stonewall Prep. 

Damn it. 

It isn’t the first night without him in their shared bed, but this one hurts more. The clock on her bedside table glows red, telling her that is far, far too early in the morning to call her boyfriend crying, which only results in more tears sliding down her already wet cheeks. 

It’s not  _ fair, _ Betty wants to whine. Feeling petulant, she kicks at the bunched up blankets she twisted in her fitful sleep. They flop unimpressively and stare back at her, as if to dare her to throw the idiotic tantrum she is so tempted to.

She practically shoved Jughead into the reaching arms of that over-the-top school and now she’s upset that one of the results of said shove is affecting her. It feels unfair to her, but she knows even more so that it would be unfair to do this to him. She can’t call and cry and say she misses him because he will pack his bags and come right back to her, leaving behind all the prospects that go hand in hand with a diploma from such an impressive school.

A tiny, selfish part of her would be very okay with that. The rest of her would feel sick with guilt. 

So instead of calling Jughead to tell him about the echoing gunshot in her nightmare or the ghostly way the offending gun appeared in her bloodied hands the moment her dream-self had watched her father’s body hit the ground, Betty opens the meditation app she downloaded weeks ago and never looked at since. It asks her to rate her stress levels before suggesting a sequence to try and she rolls her eyes at herself when her thumb hovers over ‘somewhat stressed.’ She is not  _ somewhat _ anything, much as she tries to deny it. ‘Very stressed’ seems like an understatement and gives her a short list of options to choose from. 

What are the sets of circumstances for all the other ‘very stressed’ meditators? Betty wants to be plagued their mundane, reasonable stressors. She doesn’t want to have nightmares about her dead, serial killer father. 

Betty runs through all three of the suggested meditations and her brain still won’t shut up. In fact, closing her eyes and ‘allowing her mind to become still’ only conjures up horrific images that have her chest tightening all over again. 

Tea. Maybe tea will help. Betty slips on a hoodie that Jughead left on her floor and creeps downstairs to turn on the kettle. It smells like him still, the sweet combination of his deodorant and the fabric softener he dumps too much of into the wash. 

(“Juggie, that’s so much,” she chides with a giggle as he unceremoniously pours detergent and softener into the drum. It swirls into their mixed laundry; his flannels with her jeans, the extra blankets from their bed that sat on the dusty floor for too long. 

Her heart aches with the familiarity of what their lives are, what their futures might become. Two, five, eight years down the road, washing messy sheets from the first night in their own apartment or wine spills off a tablecloth from a quiet Thanksgiving alone, or onesies and burp cloths in preparation for their expanding family. 

Jughead shrugs at her. “I dunno how this works, this washer is fancier than my computer.” The machine chirps its agreement as he spins the dial through the excessive number of cycles, selecting the non-threatening ‘Normal.’ “Besides,” he teases. “Don’t you want me to smell nice? I thought that’s why we were taking  _ all those  _ showers together.” 

When he crowds her against the dryer, the humming of the machine and of his voice in her ear lulls her into complacency. He kisses her soundly until Betty hitches her leg over his hip and his hands slide under her tank top.) 

Tears start to well up again. Dabbing at them with the hem of the oversized sleeve, Betty caters to her selfish side just the slightest by texting Jughead a heart and an ‘I love you.’ 

She’s not expecting him to respond, let alone for him to respond by calling her less than 20 seconds after she hits send. 

“Juggie?”

“Betts,” his voice sounds raspy over the phone, a whisper that she craves to be paired with his arms wrapped around her in bed. “What are you doing up so late?” 

She chews on a hangnail, not willing to open this can of worms. “I could ask you the same thing.” 

“I asked first,” he  _ tsk _ s. “And am known for my insomnia, so I have an excuse.” 

Humming noncommittally, Betty busies herself with filling the kettle and selecting a mug. 

“Betty?”

Peppermint tea sounds good, she thinks. Peppermint tea and not admitting to Jughead that she regrets telling him to take this fantastic educational opportunity, just because she doesn’t like waking up without him. 

Jughead sighs in her ear. “Did you have another nightmare?” 

“No,” she says, her stubbornness faltering with the slight wobble in her voice. 

He huffs an exhale, making a noise of disbelief. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“Not really.”  _ Yes,  _ she wants to say. But all she truly wants is to cry about it; if she cries, then Jughead will find a way to get home in the middle of the night and if he does that Betty will want him to stay, and Jughead will always do what she wants. 

Again, he emits a noise that tells her he doesn’t believe her. 

“No,” she says with more conviction. The tea bag bobs in the steaming water and Betty tracks its movement. “It’s nothing new, just variations on the same thing from… well, you know.” 

He does. He’s shaken her awake out of whimpering dreams where Edgar succeeds with his surgery, where Hal breaks free and shoots them all, where Jughead pulls a smoking gun from her hand, where menacing voices whisper harshly  _ look what you’ve done, Betty.  _

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you woke up, baby.” Betty knows he is, can hear it in the sincerity of his voice. Despite the fact that her restless sleep and endless nightmares means  _ he  _ doesn’t sleep well, Jughead never holds any of it against her. 

“It’s alright,” she whispers. Because it is, really. It should be. 

It’s alright because Betty wants nothing but the best for him and this school is going to get him just that. She’s seen the uptick in his confidence since the scholarship and the animation in his voice when he outlines essay arguments to her. She could never begrudge him this opportunity. 

Testing the temperature of the tea, Betty tucks the phone against her shoulder and returns to their bed while they share silence through the call. Once she is bundled back in the blankets and pulls another spare shirt of Jughead’s into her arms, she breathes the smell in deeply. 

“Tell me what you’re working on…” 

* * *

“Thinking about you was the only thing that kept me from losing hope. Or my sanity. I think that deep down, I know if I ever really went missing, you’d be the one to find me,” Jug smiles into the phone. 

“I would, Jug.” Betty is quiet for a few beats. “But I should have realized sooner that something was wrong.” 

Jughead knows that tone of hers, recognizes that Betty’s comment on feeling guilty was downplayed and she’s hurting more about this than she wants to admit. “Betty,” he starts. 

As though their distance has made them more in tune than ever, he doesn’t get too far into his supportive speech before Betty interrupts him. “I know, I know you’re going to say that it isn’t my fault and that I was dealing with my own problems and you in no way blame me for being preoccupied with that instead of with why you weren’t home yet. I just—I  _ want  _ to be worrying about why my boyfriend isn’t home yet, I don’t want to be learning how to track a phone call with my FBI agent brother. It’s the same way that I know you would rather be stressing about Moose’s disappearing act on its own instead of wondering if your insane classmates locked you in a coffin to keep you away while forcing Moose to leave.” 

Betty is right. As she usually is. 

Their reality has never made much sense, and he tells her as much. “Being from Riverdale kind of sucks, huh?” 

He’s answered with a watery laugh from the other end of the line. “We certainly have plenty of college application essay topics to choose from.” 

Jughead pretends to hum thoughtfully. “Do I go with how I solved a murder with my girlfriend or that time I helped break my best friend out of juvie?” 

“And don’t forget that time you were caught in the middle of a gang turf war.” 

“I’ve got one hell of a scar to explain away to my future roommates, that’s for sure,” Jughead snorts. 

Betty’s gentle giggles ease the tension in his chest and he glows with pride as his ability to coax her out of a spiral. They have come a long, long way since she showed him her bloody palms in the diner after he’d fucked up and made her cry in a twisted attempt at self-preservation. When she speaks again, though, something in her voice makes Jughead wish he were beside her in their bed to ensure her palms were flat on the comforter and not curled into fists. 

“I suppose I should write my essay on my dad. I actually hadn’t thought too hard on it before. I’m pretty behind the eight ball if I want to apply early anywhere.” 

“You know you don’t have to, Betts.” He positively aches with the need to hold her as he tells her this, and curses the 90 minute train ride between them. “The essay  _ or  _ the early applications. You’re allowed to do this however you want to.” 

Her sigh comes heavy through the speaker, sounding more weary than anybody their age should. “I know, Juggie. I do.” 

If he concentrates hard enough, Jughead can feel the soft curls of her messy bedtime bun brush under his chin and rustle the fabric of her sleep shirt—formerly his regular shirt—between his fingers. They in no way took their time living together for granted, but now that he has to fall asleep without the comforting weight of her on his chest five nights a week, Jughead mourns the time they should have spent relishing in it all. 

“I miss you, Betts.” 

“I miss you too, Jug.” The smile in her voice extends through the distance, curls warm in his chest and purrs. “The only good part about this Halloween disaster, though? I actually got to eat the best candy without you here to inhale it all.” 

Jughead gasps in mock—and somewhat real—offense. “You ate all the Butter Flingers, didn’t you?” 

“A lady never tells.” 

* * *

He goes to her, his anchor, because she is the one thing that keeps him grounded amidst the chaos. There’s so much feeling to put into the kiss that she asks him for, too much to put into words or into the kiss itself. But in that moment, he swears that she will never again need to ask him twice. 

* * *

Jug’s distracted demeanor, lost in his writing and chin on his steepled fingers, would be endearing if Betty weren’t so absurdly turned on right now. It’s more a byproduct of finally getting time alone—and time free of investigative hunches, at that—than anything else, but when you live with your mother and your boyfriend’s father (who is also your mother’s boyfriend), you take what you can get. 

“Hit save,” she tells him. He is only just closing the lid of his laptop when she throws caution to the wind and launches herself in his direction. 

As he always does, Jughead catches her. 

His hands are firm on the backs of her thighs as she hooks them tight around him and crushes her mouth to his. This isn’t the time for slow and sweet; they haven’t had sex in nearly three weeks and Betty is acutely aware of how aware certain parts of Jughead’s anatomy are of that fact. Not a full thirty seconds in this embrace and he is impossibly hard against her. Needing his hands free, Jughead drops back into his desk chair and starts yanking at various pieces of clothing. 

Her sweater is the first thing to go, then his belt and the button on her jeans, but then they are both thoroughly distracted when Jughead pulls the cup of her bra to the side and bites sharply at the inside of her breast. 

“ _ Hey,”  _ she whines. “Ow.” They’re no strangers to biting or other elements of light pain in their sex lives, but the chilly temperatures inside the dorm are making her uncomfortable enough and Betty finds she doesn't want anything beyond that tonight. Jughead can usually infer what level to start with, so they both seem to have misread this one. 

Jughead looks up at her, eyes glinting but mouth slipping into a frown. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I got carried away.” He presses his lips to the same spot, gently kissing it better. The sting abates, but he holds his position until she starts to whine again, this time in frustration. When he finally moves again, he trails kisses up her neck and she sighs in relief. They’re softer, but no less urgent, and his hands are firm around her ribs. 

“Tell me what you want,” Jughead whispers, their lips mere centimeters apart. It’s not a command, one of their games where they grapple for control, he’s asking her to set the pace. Betty thought she wanted fast and furious, but now that he’s giving her a moment to think, to let her inform  _ both  _ of their body’s movements, she realizes that isn’t what she neededat all. 

Something about the gentleness in his voice cracks deep inside her. 

“Just you,” she says. It’s an echo of their reunion so many months ago, from such a different set of circumstances, but they are bridging a gap to come together again and Betty can’t help but see the parallel. 

He murmurs, “Okay,” and ghosts his hands up her sides until he cradles her face and moves his mouth softly against hers. 

“Okay,” she says, removing his shirt and reaching around to unclasp her bra. 

_ Okay,  _ as they each stand to pull off jeans and underwear. Okay, as they awkwardly clamber up to his top bunk and Jughead needs to reach back down to grab a condom from his discarded pants. 

“ _ Ohh—”  _ when Jughead pushes into her and silences her moan by sealing his lips over hers, then tilting her jaw up to kiss under her ear, then her throat, then once more at the accidental bruise blooming on her chest. 

She feels, more than hears, the “I love you” that he mouths into her breast, right over her racing heart. Finally feeling grounded, Betty runs her fingers through his messy hair and holds fast as he presses heated kisses over every inch of skin he can reach. They’re not usually in this position and she considers trying to flip them over until she raises her hips too enthusiastically to match his thrusts and Jughead knocks his head into the ceiling. 

“Fuck,” he curses, pausing in his movements to rub at the spot. “I guess we’re even.” 

Betty pulls the hand from his head to kiss at his palm, then firmly moves it to where they’re joined. “Guess so,” she answers, showing him the rhythm she needs. 

Despite the empty dorm and the opportunity to be as loud as they’d like, Betty only whimpers when she comes that first time, too overcome with emotion at the soft look on Jughead’s face to focus on much else—even as the orgasm burns through her deliciously. 

He shudders into her and they both lay gasping for breath, tangled in the already messy bed. “You don’t make the bed here, either?” Betty teases through heavy lidded eyes. 

His gaze is still too soft for her to put any real effort into the jibe, but she kicks at the balled-up comforter to make her point. 

“Hey now,” he starts. “Be nice, or I’ll have to…” 

Betty hears him trail off, and only then notices that she’s closed her eyes. When she pries them open again, surprised by her immediate exhaustion, Jughead is crouched at the foot of the bed straightening the blankets. 

“Oh, Juggie, I was kidding.” 

“I know.” 

With a quick movement, he dives under the covers and buries his head between her thighs. 

She is so sensitive that it takes no time at all for him to build her up again, then bring her over the edge with a few precise strokes of his fingers and tongue. 

This time, when they’ve stilled and are breathing hard, the blankets are within reach to yank over them as the sweat cools on their skin. Betty traces her fingers idly over his chest and he does the same, running his thumb over the bite mark and staring at it as though his eyes might erase it. 

“I  _ am _ sorry.” 

“You don’t need to be.” 

He raises his head to look at her, the question clear in his gaze. 

“You don’t,” Betty repeats. “I  _ did  _ literally jump you and I don’t think I knew what I wanted until you did that and it didn’t feel right for the moment.” 

“If you’re sure…?”

“I am.” 

Settled by the conviction in her voice, Jughead nods. Absentmindedly, he rubs at the back of his head where he hit the ceiling. “I think there’s a  _ bump _ ,” he says in a petulant voice. “Stupid fucking bunk beds.” 

Betty giggles. “That’s probably why you were stuck with it. I don’t think top bunks are all that great for having sex.” 

“At least we know better for next year.” 

She hums her agreement but the silence feels heavier now. “It’s weird to think it’ll be like this for both of us next year. Dorm beds, socks on the door...” She grimaces, “Having to get dressed to go across the hall to get cleaned up.” To mirror her words, Betty shifts around and eyeballs the floor before sliding off and landing with a light  _ thump.  _

Jughead follows suit, dragging the blanket down and draping it over himself like a cape. He hands her his sweater and a clean pair of boxers from the dresser. “These’ll probably be easier for now.” 

He’s right and Betty slips out the door, locating the women’s bathroom quickly. The lights are harsh and the floor cold, so she washes up as fast as possible before returning to the relative warmth of Jughead’s room and blanketed embrace. Her heart catches in her throat when she realizes that this time next year, while she will acclimating to a shitty dorm mattress, she might not have Jughead to return to just down the hall. They haven’t spent much time talking about college yet, something that is probably long overdue. It isn’t so much a question about the future of their relationship, that fact is as set as stone as it could be. They will be together for as long as they will both have each other—forever—so it is more of whether their relationship will exist over a long distance, or a short one. Should they apply to the same schools, or just ones in the same area? Do they  _ want  _ to be that high school couple that attends college together? Or is their independence from Riverdale going to extend to independence from each other? 

Betty grew up with Ivy League futures drilled into her brain; Jughead grew up looking to be a first generation college graduate. Betty’s future is decidedly different now, in a way that she never expected, but Jughead is still on track to get everything he’s worked so hard for. Even better, he may be well on his way to earning a writing contract that might set him up for a life of success before he even crosses the stage at graduation. 

They have all of winter break to talk about college, maybe to even borrow FP’s truck and visit some campuses and get an idea of what they might want in their respective—or shared—schools. For now, all Betty wants is to enjoy this time with him, regardless of the dorm temperature and bunk bed. 

When she re-enters the room to swap his clothes for her own pajamas, Betty watches Jughead wrestle with the bedding while still clutching one blanket over himself. She tugs it away from him, partially to fix the bed for him, partially to get an eyeful of his bare back and ass. 

“Objectifier,” he accuses goodnaturedly when he catches her staring. 

“Just appreciating my boyfriend, that’s all.” His cheeks go a little pink at that, so Betty pulls him to her to kiss his cheek and run her fingers through his cowlick. “I love you.” 

* * *

They’re not even doing anything nefarious when Alice unceremoniously opens the closed bedroom door and leaves a three inch gap. She doesn’t poke her head in the door to tell them off, doesn’t fling it open, just carefully cracks it. 

Jughead looks up from where Betty is curled into him on the window seat, taking a gentle red pen to his new Baxter Brothers chapters while he desperately tries to catch up on physics homework. 

“Uhh,” he hums, glancing to her in confusion. 

Betty sits up and huffs. As though she doesn’t even realize she’s doing it, she begins clicking the pen with rapidfire intensity and glowers at the door. “I am going to  _ kill her. _ ” 

Jughead coughs. “Given the collective rap sheet of this house’s occupants  _ and  _ our dear FBI agent half-brother, maybe let's not make threats of murder, Betts.” The glower points in his direction now and he raises his hands in defense. “I'm just saying,” he hedges. “Better safe than sorry.” 

“I'll show her  better safe than sorry,” Betty grumbles. “I think maybe I’ll make a Christmas wreath of condoms for the front door this year. Just to make it clear how _safe_ and _smart_ we’re being while you’re apparently fucking the intelligence out of me.” 

Not even Betty, riled up and talking about their exuberant  _ fucking,  _ is enough to combat Jughead’s deep-seated fear of Alice Smith-nee-Cooper-nee-Smith. It’s for this reason that he holds her hands hostage when she straddles him while reaching for his belt buckle and leaning in to suck kisses along his Adam’s apple. 

She whines in frustration at him before flipping the script and adopting the demure, coquettish voice she saves only for their carefully-planned trysts. “Do you want to tie my hands up, Juggie?” 

It’s his turn to whine, but it’s caught so deep in his throat and is so strangled by the impossible situation that it comes out as growl.  _ That  _ does not help the case when Betty preens and blinks up at him. She’s panting in earnest now and Jughead can tell by the mild glaze of her eyes that they’re on a razor thin line; they can tiptoe back out of the scene they’ve found themselves in and risk that fallout, or they can slam the door shut before Jughead shoves her to her knees and then deal with the ramifications later, after he’s come on her face. 

Much as Jughead knows Betty wants to give Alice the proverbial finger, and as much as he would like to explore Betty’s newfound penchant for climbing in his lap while the door is wide open, this is not the time. 

He keeps a firm grip on her wrists but strokes his thumb over the back of one hand with soft movements. “Come on, Betts. Not like this,” he murmurs. 

Betty deflates, but nods. Her voice is quiet when she speaks. “I know, I know.” 

In the silence, Jughead listens to Betty steady her breathing again while he takes his own deep breaths to quell the raging hard-on he now has. He’s staring at a mark on the ceiling and counting backwards from fifty when Betty gets up and shuts the door again. 

He knows she can see his predicament, but did they not just—

“Calm down, Jug. I’m merely proposing we put on a  _ fake  _ show.” 

Still a little lost and only down to 32, he doesn’t fully understand until Betty launches herself at the bed. The blankets are messy from the morning and one pillow falls off with the force she puts on the frame. It creaks ominously and the headboard _thunks_ against the wall several times. 

His beautiful, poised, picturesque girlfriend starts to thrash around on their shared bed in comically exaggerated movements and Jughead laughs so hard he drops his textbook. Betty gives him a thumbs up and a wink at the resulting thud of it hitting the floor. 

She continues to force squeaks and thumping out of the bed and Jughead is beginning to worry she may go full  _ When Harry Met Sally  _ on him before an affronted  _ “Elizabeth!”  _ shouts up the staircase. Face flushed and ponytail adorably askew, Betty grins and sits up. 

Sharp clicks of heels on stairs echo down the hall, so Jughead schools his features and retrieves the physics book from the ground. Betty merely picks up her phone from the nightstand and scrolls through text messages. 

This time, Alice does throw the door open, her face close to purple with rage. Jughead is very happy they went this route instead of the alternative; they’re feet apart and Alice still looks ready to castrate him. 

“Yes, mom?” Betty smiles prettily and cocks her head in the direction of her mother. “Is something the matter?” 

There is no mistaking Betty for her mother’s daughter in this moment: their twin expressions of defiance ratchet up the tension in the room until it is nearly unbearable. And because he is a Jones, he lets the Cooper women go toe to toe without getting in the middle of it. 

He’ll settle for the last word, though. 

After a brief staredown, Alice turns on her heels and stomps through the door. 

“Mrs. Cooper?” 

Another venomous glare comes at him. “Yes, Jug-Head?” 

“Does the open doors policy extend to yours and my dad’s room, too?” 

If he weren’t worried about breaking his ankles, Jughead might escape through the window behind him. Though, if looks could kill, Jughead would already be out the window. 

Betty, however, is looking at him like she had before, like she’s about to mount him on the spot. 

The furious silence is broken only by the sharpness of the latch as Alice pulls the door shut behind her. 

In mere seconds, Betty _does_ mount him on the spot. Her hands slip into his pants before he has a moment to catch up and Jughead sighs into her neck when she pumps her hand. They land in the bed eventually, Jughead’s groans muffled by her nipple in his mouth. For all her show, they take extra precaution to remain silent, staying toward the edge of the mattress to avoid the headboard knocking against the wall, and Betty breathes hotly against the hand he places over her lips. 

Jughead finishes in an embarrassingly short amount of time; Betty rocks in his lap, anchored by her hands around his neck, and he is  _ gone  _ the second she breaks away to whisper that next time he can use a real gag on her if he wants. When he regains his wits, Jughead can see that Betty looks disheveled, but not quite enough. He maneuvers them until she is kneeling just over his chest and he brushes his thumbs over the jut of her hipbones. 

“Come on,” he taps twice on her ass to shuffle her even closer to his mouth. Briefly, he leans up to nip at the crease of her thigh and he hopes it leaves a mark. “Have your way with me, Betts, I know you want to.” 

Oh, does she ever. 

_ fin _

**Author's Note:**

> as ever, thank you to my liv-twin-extraordinaire iconicponytail for her encouragement and "please finish this fic so I can read it" texts. 
> 
> drop a comment if you're so inclined! they are always, always appreciated.


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